The B-list
by csfcsf
Summary: In which Sherlock is Bored, John is Babbling, Mrs Hudson is Baking, Lestrade is Betting, and Mycroft is Blinking. More categories may be added. Small one-scenes around Sherlock, crossing various genres.
1. Sherlock is bored

**1. Sherlock is bored**

**.**

'How in the world did you do this?'

Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders, without facing John or 221B's kitchen.

'Sherlock, the kitchen is all... blue.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the statement. Might have been a touch unfair, John felt. Although the saturated colour was obvious – covering the back wall, the cabinets, the fridge and even part of the ceiling – it was quite fazing.

Everything was blue. Sparkling edgy crystals of some chemical substance coated the usual kitchen landscape.

'How...' John collected himself, focusing by pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Sherlock, how did you do it?'

'With sulphuric acid.'

That could never be a good answer.

'With a strong acid. Why am I not surprised?'

'Quite diluted, John, not to worry. It has completely reacted with the copper by now.'

John turned on his heels, looking over his shoulder to where the refrigerator was, now encompassed in a small crystals fortress. He was very sure the refrigerator hadn't been made of copper.

'I worked the copper into every surface first, John. These are copper sulphate crystals, John. Do keep up', Sherlock read his mind, his greenish eyes very bright. He was amused.

An image of Sherlock propped on a stool spraying the walls and everything in front of it with diluted sulphuric acid popped in John's mind.

'Why would you...' he was lost for words.

Sherlock smiled, as in victory.

'I was bored, John. You should come more often.'

John glanced at the kitchen walls behind him again. Right. _Bored._

They both smiled. When it came down to it, John was probably just as crazy as Sherlock; how else would he be so accepting? John found himself relaxed, amused, entailed even.

'Any chance for other colours next time, Sherlock?'

'Actually, John, this is a very lengthy process. You really should drop by more often.'

'You're blackmailing me with the state of your kitchen.'

'Well, you're the one who called by bluff.'

'Me? How? I didn't even know your plans!' John was stunned.

'Then you should have come over that time, a month ago', Sherlock maintained, proudly. John lost his smile.

'Mary needed me, Sherlock. I explained it to you.'

The consulting detective dismissed it with a vague gesture. 'I understand. I got bored anyway. It's okay, John.'

They both stared at the deep blue crystals that surrounded them like the walls of a cave. It still felt too fantastically impossible of a reality to John. Yet, it felt oddly placed at 221B Baker Street.

'Are you keeping it?'

Sherlock stretched his arm to shut off the overhead light in the kitchen. Only the cell phone on the table provided enough glow to light up the crystals and bounce off shimmering sparkles off the edges. It looked as the whole universe had been compressed to fit the back wall of the kitchen.

'It's... amazing, Sherlock', John admitted easily.

'Well, I'm a graduate chemist, John.'

They stood there, side by side, mesmerized by the tranquil landscape until John realized:

'Mrs H is going to have a fit. You're doomed, Sherlock.'

He just smirked. He wasn't going to be bored for a while.

.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	2. John is babling

**2. John is babbling**

**.**

_'There it is', John said sharply. The moment Sherlock realized John was a liability. 'This is where we part, because I will shoot again!'_

* * *

In John's sweetly addled brain, it made perfect sense. _Sleep_ was all that mattered. Civilizations were built and destroyed for it, new territories were chartered and deemed safe, love was pursued, all for the sake of a good night's _sleep_. That was what Mankind History had been about - _sleep_ - and John was prepared to lecture anyone on the subject. That is, he would be, after a few hours _sleep_. He felt so strongly on this subject that he'd be ready to academically pursue it for the rest of his life. Sherlock would have to hear, for it was John's turn to deduce, quite brilliantly if he could say so himself, all about _sleep_. His triumph was his to share with the world and-

The cab halted suddenly, snapping John out of his reverie, and Sherlock was suddenly paying the driver before John was even sure they had left Baker Street. John looked all around him and through the window, blearily. The night returned John grim shadows and an unknown location. They were on a case, surely, but for the life of him, John couldn't remember it.

'You nodded off, John', Sherlock provided in an even, slightly depreciative tone. 'You need to be awake now. I told you, keep alert. This suspect is armed and has killed before. Have your gun ready at all times.'

Maybe John shouldn't have come, it would only have been reasonable. John had just had an emergency 24 hours shift in A&E at the hospital, it had been quite demanding and exhausting, on top of Sherlock's usual maniac episodes. All in all, he was awake for 36 hours straight and his body was threatening to shut down on him. Caffeine was the only thing that kept him going at this point, and it had made his hands shake visibly before. Only the comfort of the familiar steel gun steadied his hand now.

'Sherlock!' John protested, as he ran after the consulting detective through his knowledgeable maze of London's dirty alleys and back patios.

'Keep up, John! He killed four people to steel this documents, we can't let him get away!'

At another time, John would have been proud of Sherlock's display of moral values; though it probably was just the thrill of the chase that edged on Sherlock at that point.

With a sharp turn to the right at the back of the alley, Sherlock was met with a drunken couple of gunshots. Immediately he dove behind a dumpster opposite, on the corner's entrance of the back patio of a closed restaurant.

'Sherlock, are you alright?!'

He nodded sharply, unfazed, before demanding out loud, his voice filling the gap between the high brick walls of the maze: 'Get out, Davies! You haven't got a chance! The police are on its way!'

It was true, John understood with a shock. Sirens flooded the alley's silence. Sherlock must have texted Lestrade for backup from the cab.

As a response, the criminal's gun was slid across the dingy cobbled floor, stopping somewhere close to Sherlock. The surrender was real, the threat was over, and the police officers could handle the arrest themselves soon. The stress and danger level of the situation had dissipated, with the suspect unarmed and cornered on a small closed off patio.

John felt drowsy again all of a sudden, adrenaline dissipating in the blood stream.

'I surrender', Davies had announced clearly. Sherlock looked almost annoyed on how easy it had been, John chuckled.

With a sleepy sigh John lowered the gun to his side. He took the other hand to his face to scrub over his wary eyelids...

A loud thump startled them. Instinctively John opened his eyes and contracted his hands for a fight... That's when his gun fired from his right side, filling the alley with his own loud noise and the acrid metallic smell of fire discharge.

All eyes on site coursed through to John's gun. Next thing, Sherlock had ignored all caution and leaped over to John's hiding place, grabbed him by the shoulders. Demanding an answer.

'Jeeessss, Sherlock, it was a mistake, I misfired. Will you stop it?! I wasn't hit! I'm just the most pathetic excuse for an ex-soldier, almost hit by friendly fire from his own gun!'

Sherlock was looking frightened in his blue-green eyes as he insisted on performing some sort of mock-up basic check on John for injuries, patting John's right side coat and leg. Finally he let out a long breath. 'John, I can't believe...' he started, relieved, as the first police car screeched to a halt at the alley's entrance, halting his speech.

'I'm so glad I didn't shoot you', John splurged out at once, overwhelmed with guilt and embarrassment.

'What?' Sherlock strangely whispered. It was like he had just spoken a foreign language to Sherlock (and there weren't so many of those that the detective didn't speak). 'John, don't be an idiot, you'd never let yourself point a gun at me, so no accidental discharge could ever hit me.'

'Well, it just almost did!' John argued right back.

Their voices were being raised, their altercation clearly audible throughout the alley. Not that John cared anymore. Embarrassment in front of the Police force was little punishment in comparison to what could have happened.

'Will you just quit?'

'Well, this is how it ends, isn't it? I cannot continue. This is more than a silly mistake, Sherlock.'

'What do you mean? You didn't shoot anyone, John, this is not the time to make life decisions based on alternate outcomes of a simple gunfire. I know you really need to sleep. I shouldn't have brought you like this.'

'There it is', John said sharply. The moment Sherlock realized John was a liability. 'This is where we part, because I will shoot again!'

Sherlock just grabbed him tighter in his hands, the first officers were running towards the scene.

'You're babbling, John', he finally stated calmly, in his profound deduction's voice.

'I mean it!' John bellowed.

'If you stop, I stop', Sherlock stated calmly. John goggled him in utter surprise.

Suddenly the voice of a young man, an accomplice, was audible through the patio: 'Please don't shoot me, I surrender!'

The second man came out of a blind spot in the alley. He had been there all along, they realized, trying to make a move on them in order to free Davies. The young man was now standing with his hands raised in the air, shaky and defeated. From the restaurant patio Davies cursed, he had been counting on that break and the fake surrender had been meant to buy time. Before he knew it, John had raised again his gun, to protect him and Sherlock. The young man put down his own gun on the floor. Davies looked utterly defeated as well.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look, and started giggling; Davies' accomplice had misunderstood their entire conversation, believing that Sherlock was trying to persuade John from shooting him dead point-blank, and the seriousness of their altercation had incredibly managed to scare the inexperienced criminal into surrender.

'He's all yours, Lestrade', Sherlock presented, as soon as he recognized the Detective Inspector and his officers nearing them. 'We're off.'

'I need your statement', the DI protested. 'You are several statements behind!'

'Don't say it like you mean it, Lestrade. You've been reading John's blog, it's all in there.'

'Not the same', he grunted with half a smile. 'Where are you two going?! Another criminal chase?'

'Baker Street. John needs to rest. I've learnt my lesson.' Sherlock answered cryptically without explaining further.

The pair silently stepped away from the crocks apprehended and the police officers on scene.

'And now?' John asked bravely to Sherlock as they walked away.

Sherlock pondered him for a second, before opting for more seriousness than humour. 'I mean it. It's both of us or none. And since I'm insufferable when left without cases, and you are my flatmate, what will you chose, John?'

John sighed, divided between reading the words as sugar-coated honesty and comforting bluff. Either way, he was thankful for his friend's words.

'A good night sleep will fix me right up', he said at last, in a lightness he didn't feel yet. Like Sherlock had said, it was a lesson learnt.

Back on the main road, as Sherlock halted a cab, he added, in those few precious seconds before they were in someone's earshot again: 'Still, your missed shot saved our lives this time, John. Davies' accomplice was inexperienced, and working up the courage to shoot us both. Davies chose that spot to hide purposefully, knowing we'd get there, and I missed that. Not enough data, it can happen', he added, like a personal embarrassment. 'One might say your misfire saved our lives tonight, John', Sherlock assured with an absolute and manipulative calm, and a smirk.

'No.'

'What?'

'I would never say that. Not out loud, anyway.'

.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	3. Mrs Hudson is baking

**3. Mrs Hudson is baking**

**.**

'Mrs Hudson, it really isn't that much of a big deal.'

'Don't be silly, Sherlock, of course it is!'

'It comes around every year!' the detective tries to make a point.

'That's why it's called a _birthday_, dear', she remarks pointedly. 'Now be a dear and give me a pound of flour.'

'Why a pound?'

'Because that's what the recipe says, Sherlock. And John loves this yogurt cake.'

'Yogurt cake. It's ridiculous. It's either a yogurt or a cake, it can't be both!'

'It's not both, it's a cake, and it has yogurt in it.'

'Oh.'

'Now give me the raising powder.'

A new look replaces the childish petulance across the sulking consulting detective still in his dressing gown, as he raises the little can to read the printed instructions.

'Sherlock, we really need that, dear...' Mrs Hudson says patiently, rubbing her hands on her apron. John's secret birthday cake is more culinary action than 221B's kitchen has seen for a long time. Figure Sherlock would pout at the idea of helping bake a cake. Not for the trouble, though, the beautiful child genius is a graduate chemist, of course. But this is _John_'s cake. Quiet, affable, caring Doctor John Watson's cake.

And this is the third cake in a row Sherlock and Mrs Hudson are baking, because (according to the genius himself) John needs to have the perfect cake, once it's elected out of the three cakes.

Maybe Sherlock should offer John all three cakes, Mrs H pondered silently. After all, first time around for John's birthday neither Sherlock nor Mrs Hudson knew the date and it went unmarked. The second time around they were on a case in Europe, undercover, and there was no party. The following year, Sherlock forgot, quite simply, since he was in a week long sulk fit. And after that, Sherlock was, to everyone's knowledge, tragically deceased.

This was the chance to make it right by John. And despite Sherlock's antics, he was secretly anxious to make things right. For the first year, in which he didn't know how lonely John was, back in London, with no one to celebrate his birthday with. For the next year they were a roadshow magician and a dagger thrower in a circus in Europe. Then came the week Sherlock bailed out because he was too self-absorbed because of his big brain (and head?). Mostly for the time he let that day pass silently as he tore down a huge criminal network abroad. Twice.

'John doesn't eat yogurts. He doesn't like yogurts. Does he like yogurts? Further observation is required for the approval of the hypothesis. Mrs Hudson, does John like lemon? We could bake a lemon cake as well.'

She laughed softly. 'I'm sure John will like any cake you choose, Sherlock. It's not about the cake or the presents.'

Sherlock glanced at her, unbelieving. Everything needed to be perfect.

'John will be arriving in four hours, twenty-three minutes.'

'I know that, dear. Now give me the egg yolks. We need to whisk them.'

'I can do that.'

'Go ahead, dear.'

'What are you doing?'

'I'm getting the oven tray ready, Sherlock.'

'It says nothing of that in the recipe, Mrs Hudson.'

'Well, it makes sense, though, don't you think?'

'Yes, yes, I think so... This is hard.'

'Nonsense, dear.'

'What if this cake doesn't work?'

'Then we have two others, Sherlock.'

'We should bake four cakes. Be prepared...'

'Just relax, dear.'

'I'm relaxed, Mrs H... Don't tell John I'm not relaxed.'

'I won't.'

'Thank you, Mrs H.'

'You're welcome, dear.'

'Your birthday is next month.'

'Yes it is.'

'Damn.'

'Language, young man!'

.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	4. Greg is betting

**4. Greg is betting**

_**.**_

The yellow crime scene delimitation tape was crossed from side to side of the narrow alley. The intermittent blue lights of the emergency vehicles periodically pierced the night's darkness revealing in flashes the efforts of the police officers walking about, collecting evidence, cataloguing and registering the scene details.

One man surveyed the overall coordination of the professionals. Assuring they worked like a well trained orchestra at the Opera House. The man stood tall and calm, in his trench coat and short grey hair, hiding the storm brewing inside. Periodically he moved silently his lips as if missing a cigar. A welcome distraction to the tense team on site. An eerily silent well oiled team. The only noises around were muffled comments between team members, the clanks of the examination bags of the forensic team, the heavy footsteps of the paramedics wrapping up their intervention.

A cab approached the yellow tape and the Detective Inspector in charge of the scene, its motor drenching the silence on site with mechanic nervousness.

'Lestrade', greeted the first man exiting the cab, in a formal educated voice, ignoring the shorter man still inside, paying the fare with routine gestures.

'Sherlock... John. Glad you two could come but...'

DI Greg Lestrade was brushed aside by the taller man who was confidently pulling up the police tape and making his way in. The DI looked over inquiringly at the shorter man exiting the cab. John Watson returned a polite smile and an honest shoulder shrug. Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't immediately entranced by a mystery, to the point of shutting off everyone else's presence there.

'Just... let him do his _thing_, Greg. He won't listen to anyone till he's done, anyway', reminded John, politely.

Greg bit his lip. But there was no stopping Sherlock Holmes now.

'This isolated location suggests an illicit business. The blood spatter pattern on the wall is a clear indication of the victim's height and posture. The arterial splatter is angled, from a victim who is almost six foot tall, standing relaxed with his arms don along his body. _So, a surprise attack._ Going by the particular shape of the droplets, the blow was angled from bellow, but not too low, closer to the horizontal. _The attacker is, therefore, about fix foot four. A tall man, right-handed, using a sharp blade instrument with a long line, possibly a knife, most probably a sword._'

Sherlock was full-on maniac monologuing towards Greg and John, still standing by the police tape. 'A sword, in London. Not a usual weapon this days_. Strongly indicates premeditation, no one walks around London with a sword. _Pity, really.' Greg frowned, Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

'The swordsman arrives at the alley. _Could be a female but a man is more likely judging by height, weapon of choice and angle of the blow._ He hides behind a trash bin. He's wearing sport shoes and fidgeting as he stands crouched down there. The victim arrives and stands near the entrance to the alley. _Fear, hesitance._ The victim is uncomfortable with the location, loses his chance to walk away. Maybe he's approached immediately by the swordsman, more likely he's stunned by the sight of him in the shadows. The swordsman comes closer. They stand and face each other for a minute. They talk, then. Threats, probably. _Maybe the killer is after money, maybe it's blackmail._ It ends badly, with a blow to the neck. The victim falls down on the floor, bleeding fast, the swordsman runs towards the entrance of the alley, these are his sport shoes prints again. He stops. Why does he stop? Calling for help? _No._ Hiding his weapon, then. _Where? Here!_ He's stupid, he just drops the red bladed sword on the nearest garden, under these shrubs. Then he...'

Sherlock was briskly interrupted by a paramedic, bumping into him, with his back turned to the detective, walking backwards, carrying something heavy. Sherlock looks down at the man's hands. He's carrying a gurney with a man heavy bandaged around neck and shoulders. John is on the other side, with the two paramedics, holding up an IV bag and jolting fast precise medical instructions at the team.

'Sorry, Sherlock!' he adds to his friend, with an apologetic grimace.

Apologetic? He's leaving with a bleeding six foot tall man. _The victim. He's not dead._ John is helping the paramedics. Greg lifts the yellow tape for them to pass.

The sword was on the bushes. The swordsman stopped. He called the police himself. He didn't mean to kill the victim. _Inference?_ It was a stupid show of swordsmanship, the sword being the object illegally traded in a dark alley. _It wasn't murder. It was a back alley purchase of a collector's sword gone stupidly wrong._

'Lestrade!' Sherlock was indignant now.

The DI tried to appease the consulting detective with broad gestures. 'You didn't let me talk, Sherlock!'

'He's not even dead!' Sherlock protested, pointing at the man being pushed into the ambulance.

At earshot, John gave him a "bit not good" warning look. Greg just smirked secretly.

Then he lost his smirk.

What were the guys at the Yard going to say? Did Sherlock solve, or not, the crime scene in under three minutes? Well, he did solve it, just solved the wrong crime, it wasn't a murder at all. But he described every event accurately.

Greg still wondered. Did he, or did he not, win the bet with the forensic guys? They were going to give him a hard time over this one...

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	5. Mycroft is blinking

**5. Mycroft is blinking**

**_._**

Somewhere outside dawn was making its way over London City, the morning light still too pale to warm the quiet streets and houses.

A deep shudder trembled the man that had been defined as the British Government. It only escaped him behind the vault-like walls of his secretly located private office and by the time he was alone. Sat behind his desk, Mycroft Holmes reviewed the cctv footage of the night before. He already knew the outcome of last night's events. He was being updated every half-an-hour yet. Right now Mycroft allowed himself a moment to study what had happened. It all had happened in a blink of an eye.

Sherlock Holmes exited 221 Baker Street in a small run, leaving the door ajar. John Watson was just on his heels, grabbing the door knob to shut it close behind them. The stretch to the door knob of the smaller statured man rose his coat over his shoulders, the hem above his waist line, revealing a fast metal sparkle of the object tugged at his back. The doctor's gun.

Mycroft's men had missed that steel glint and failed to raise the surveillance level on the infamous double.

They entered a well timed cab and it drove off the picture.

Another camera, twenty minutes later, picked them up across London. A dingy black alley of an industrial area. A small intense conversation between Sherlock and John, the muted footage giving them privacy. The two men split up, shortly. Sherlock remained centre stage at the security camera. The unruly raven black curls, the long wool coat flapping open, he was hard to make out on the badly lit alley as he progressed. Then Sherlock halted, a slow wide gesture. Speaking out onto the alley, then. Plenty of shadows and hiding places. Dangerous. Sherlock had lured a criminal into those dangerous shadows.

Finally a man steps out of the shadows. Animalistic pose, primal instincts taking over the criminal. Yet his hands were out on the open, unarmed.

Sherlock gestures in appeasement.

In front of the screen, Mycroft tenses. It's not right. The criminal doesn't step out of the shadows. In front of him, Sherlock appears to be too trusting. His baby brother is wrong.

The silent footage continues despite the spectator's worry. The filmed detective is approaching the criminal.

'Stop it, Sherlock. He's not revealing his accomplice's name', Mycroft confides too late, into an empty office.

Sherlock jumps to the side, as the criminal reaches to a concealed gun and points. Silent flashes of titanic white reveal two gun shots. The first one just misses Sherlock due to his reflex escape. The second one is diverted from its fatal direction by the timely intervention of a heroic punch – a surprising appearance by John Watson from behind the shooter. His bravery is rewarded with a third white flash. Then Sherlock springs forward and hits the criminal with some sort of pipe. He wins. The criminal falls down. So has John, next to him. Hit by the third gunshot.

Sherlock rolls the unconscious criminal away with a vicious revengeful kick, then ducks on the shadows to reach John. The camera is too far away to give detail on the expression of Mycroft Holmes' brother, but if the tremors that rattle his body are enough to go by, he's in shock himself. John is the doctor, Sherlock is at a loss on what to do.

A small movement on the fallen man comforts momentarily the detective. The electronic glow of a phone shows across the shadows. "999" and an ambulance is on its way to the scene. Sherlock is bending over the smaller figure now, wrapping it in his warm embrace. Mycroft knows John is telling Sherlock that all is right, even as he drops his blond head on Sherlock's shoulder. The two men are an unit, embracing in order to heal their common wound.

Minutes pass before the paramedics make their way into the silent film, angled from above.

In his office, Mycroft finds himself blinking illogical tears away. It might be the lateness of the hour, the long night stretched as the half-an-hour reports told the tale of an abdominal gunshot wound, a surgery at the A&E, a phone call to Sherlock choosing silent subliminal words that the two brothers don't say out loud to each other, the news that John pulls through to the recovery room, Sherlock angrily assuring that he won't leave John's side till he becomes conscious again, and Mycroft telling Sherlock that he needs to return to Baker Street and rest.

He's just been told that John Watson is awake at last. And that still Sherlock won't leave the hospital. Mycroft feels relief. And pride too. He's too used to worry about his little brother. He's just now realized that he worries about John Watson too. The other half of the unit. The one that he's sure Sherlock doesn't _need_, and yet he does.

Mycroft sits back on his chair. Two men have survived that night's events, and a third is relieved. Slowly, Mycroft blinks it all away.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	6. Molly is in a black-out

A/N: A thousand thanks to all the kind words and support I've received, you've brightened my day. As you can tell by now I'm doing this stories out of fun and experimentation, so I've really never expected – well, any reaction at all, to be honest. English is not my first language so again many apologies for all the misspellings and flat-out wrong words that may linger.

This next one (Molly is in a black-out) was particularly hard. I even cheated a little on the title (yeah, I'll admit it, there you have it). My favourite thing about Molly is her sense of humour – it's so deliciously wrong. If anyone out there understands it, it has to be Sherlock, right?

* * *

**6. Molly is in a black-out**

_**.**_

'By the bruising pattern forming in the inferior portion of the left-hand side of the victim's rib-cage... Oh, sorry, Sherlock!' Molly almost jumped at the sudden contact with the tall detective looming over both pathologist and dead body with the same intent expression. Molly pursed her lips once, fast, dispelling the thought of intention on the Sherlock Holmes' part. The genius detective had always shown a complete disregard for personal space for two categories of people: his friends (who had worked hard to earn that trust) and dead people (who never seemed to mind a bit of warmth anyway, cold and stiff as they were – better not joke about that, pathology humour is gravely misunderstood).

'The victim was kicked by an expert karate practitioner using his right foot covered in a heavy rain boot. Hasn't rained in over a week, at least not enough precipitation to warrant the use of rain boots so probably a construction worker or a gardener in his work attire... I'll need to take a look at this man's clothes for traces of dirt transferred from the kick.'

'Well, that's the forensic lab, Sherlock. This is a morgue. See all the dead bodies in here?' she joked in a subdued manner, with a weak attempt to smile. To her relief, Sherlock really didn't do all the politically correct small talk and he'd just smile back at her. A brief half-hearted smile that recognised her joke, that was all. His mind was entranced by the case, not the pathologist. Then why was Molly sure that her cheeks had suddenly caught fire?

No, Molly wasn't like that anymore. Sherlock was a friend, and a good man, and she accepted that he didn't see her _that_ _way_. She was a friend, a sister even. That was already very good. And she had moved on. She wanted more from life than Sherlock could give her. If he was capable of love somewhere in the mysterious recesses of his great brain he was most definitely not offering it to her at the time and she hadn't the heart to wait indefinitely.

So she was thankful to Sherlock and she had started viewing him more like a protective older brother than a gorgeous looking crush. Her knee-jerking reactions to his sudden proximity were just echoes of the past.

She was glad he was alive. And that she had helped. And that he was there again.

'Do you want to see more bodies, Sherlock?' Molly asked before she could ponder how her words would have sounded to anyone else but Sherlock. 'I mean, dead bodies. You're probably in a hurry to go to forensics, though.'

'I'm not in a hurry', he said calmly. She smiled, awkwardly looking down on her feet. Knee-jerk reactions.

'I have a cyanide poison victim for you, Sherlock.'

'Dull. Too blue, I imagine.'

'More than the carbon monoxide victim', she joked easily. 'You know, red skin... God, we shouldn't joke, it's sad.'

'John is not here.'

There was a malicious smile in Sherlock that instantly made Molly blush hard. This was good, this was common ground.

'He'd still be right if he were here', Molly pointed out, with an equally wicked grin, badly disguised. 'Where is John anyway?'

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. 'Working. He...'

His words died out Just as the lights did too, all over the morgue. No light coming through the window panes of the hallway doors either. A black-out all over the building, maybe even in that part of the city.

Darkness encircled Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. Given that the morgue was located in the depths of St. Bartholomew's Hospital there were no windows and no outside lights seeping through from the outside. Pitch black all around them.

'At least none of us is afraid of ghosts', Molly forced a joke, the utter darkness disturbing her far more than the dozen bodies stored in refrigerating chambers.

A small pat on her shoulder came as a surprise, mostly because it felt comfortable, reassuring. Maybe Sherlock had sensed something in her voice after all.

'The automatic generator should come on if the electricity doesn't power itself back in half-an-hour', he stated, calmly.

'That's probably a good thing. With all the dead bodies stored in here and heat building up.'

'The evidence would get tainted', Sherlock agreed.

That wasn't the main concern on the pathologist's mind, though. Sensory inputs of decomposing bodies was more like it.

'So, we're stuck here', she realized, still a bit jumpy.

Sherlock withdrew the phone from his pocket and tapped it to light the screen. The electric glow flowed from the device between them. Somehow, it reminded Molly of a campfire glow on a particularly pitch black sky on one of her family's camping trips to the country.

'We can leave any time, Molly.'

'But...?' she sensed.

'We don't know if this was planned in order to have someone get in here, snatch a body or destroy evidence.'

'Then we should lock the doors behind us.'

'Or we could just stand guard.'

'Stand guard, Sherlock?' she was staring at his face now, all those knee-jerk reactions forgotten now. His face was earnest, captivating even.

'Well, I was conversing and if you leave, the dead bodies won't talk back', he said awkwardly.

She smiled to put him at ease.

'Sherlock, you know you can come talk to me even if there isn't a case, don't you?'

It was his turn to look away. Knee-jerk reactions.

'I mean it, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	7. Harry is bothersome

**7. Harry is bothersome**

_**.**_

Harry Watson was sitting on a bar stool. Nothing new there. It felt like a familiar lair, a last refuge of make believe companionship, acceptance, stale happiness, all that the walls of a bar usually impressed on her. No matter which bar. It was like a second home, the one place where she fit in naturally, where she didn't have to prove herself, where she could let herself feel free.

Except not this time. John was to meet her there this evening. And John, her brother, was a buzz-kill.

She rolled her cold glass on the sleek surface with her fingertips. The amber coloured liquid swirled invitingly.

Not yet. John was on his way. That's the second glass. She'll just tell him it's the first. He'll believe it. Because those words are the ones he wants to hear. Wishful thinking will deceive him, thus releasing Harry's already guilt ridden conscience. Damn her brother John. The perfect one. Of the two siblings he's the one that saves lives (he's a doctor), who fought for his country (he was a soldier at war), who fights crime (alongside Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes), who's married and an expecting father... From his buttoned up shirts up to the collar to his precise cut hair, he's the perfect one. He probably wakes up in the morning all fresh and smelling like roses, and under the spotlight of angel choirs singing from above. Harry is more used to waking up hangover. Do the math, see who's the one winning (and who's the one that desperately needs a drink).

'_Damn it John, you're late. If you take longer to get here, you'll be a few drinks too late as well'_, she muttered to her glass.

'_Who came up with the idea of meeting at a bar anyway?'_

Oh, yeah. Harry did. Because it felt like a second home. Or, more accurately, a vacation home, away from the main home, the bulk of everyday's life. Yeah, that's more like it...

'_Where are you, John? I'm waiting...'_

'Evening.'

The calm voice belongs to a man who just sat down on the stool next to her. Harry glances, biting back a Watson-type answer designed to get her space back because she recognises the man. Posh, wavy raven black curls, pale white skin, tall (definitely not a Watson). He's John's sidekick, Sherlock Holmes.

'Where's John? He's late. The least he could do was to come on time. I've had a very long stressful day at work. Not everyone can be _perfect_.'

Sherlock is silently observing her with green tinted eyes. It's disconcerting. Harry can sense the intensity of his gaze upon her. It's both detached and innocently curious.

'I'm John's sister', Harry adds, just to fill the silence.

'I know', he answers. She berates herself. Of course he knows. John told him about her and where they'd meet. Why isn't he coming?

'And John?'

'Emergency shift at the clinic, covering for a colleague. He's really sorry he couldn't make it.'

'He always is. Sorry for everything, that is.' (Perfect John...)

'You're intent on finishing that whisky bottle.'

Harry took a sip of her glass, tiredly. 'So what?'

'You wanted John to stop you. Now you expect me to stop you.'

'You can't stop me', she answered as a challenge, a sparkle in her blue eyes. Not enough sparkle to drown the lost look in them. A shared trait with her brother.

She shrugged her shoulders. Sherlock Holmes was rapidly becoming boring. How did John put up with him anyway?

'Your father', the detective says at last.

'What?'

'He drank too.'

'So John told you that? About our father and us growing up? He must really care for you if he tells you those stories. He usually just pretends he's forgotten.'

'No, he hasn't told me.'

'Not such good friends there, eh?' Harry felt a small victory there, and greeted it with a vicious drunken smile.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, minutely.

'John is the best friend I could ask for. Ask yourself why he'd keep it a secret from me.'

'Because Perfect John is ashamed of our drunken estranged father.'

'No, I think John understands him.'

It was Harry's turn to tilt her head to the side.

'Yeah, we do understand him', she said, alcohol releasing the words from her mind straight to her mouth.

'And he understands you too, Harry.'

She grimaced. All the similarities with their father suddenly so apparent. This is what John himself would never tell her. Because it hurt both of them. Fine, she'd stop drinking for the night. The memories of one old time drunken Watson fuelling her decision till morning lights.

Sherlock got up, slowly, reading her decision. 'But I don't think you understand John', he still added for the sake of defending his friend, knowing she wouldn't grasp it tonight. The fact that John was hardly perfect. That John fought his own demons, that sometimes John would wake up in the mornings to heavy black clouds when everyone around him saw warm sunny days.

John was human, and so was Harry. In fact, there was a lot in Harry that reminded Sherlock of his friend. Similar because they were brother and sister, and also because of their mornings.

_**.**_

A/N: Harry is a non-scripted character, pretty much. This is my take on John's sister (and their father – sorry about the drunken father cliché).

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	8. Moriarty is back (is he?)

**8. Moriarty is back**

**(...is he?)**

_**.**_

'Sherlock, I brought the milk!'

John Watson was closing shut 221 Baker Street's door with mock exasperation. 'I got your text, saying _we_ need milk. I wasn't even coming here, you know? I was going to grab a pint with people from work! Instead, I went to get Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes milk. _I_ don't need milk, you know? Why are we always out of milk anyway?'

As John finished his milk-inspired rant he had just made it upstairs with a supermarket bag. 'Are you even here, Sherlock? Did I just bring milk to an empty flat?'

221B's door was open ajar as usual, and the customary living room landscape looked as familiar as ever. The inviting cluttered mess of weird and creative junk littered the table, the shelves and even the carpet. A bored low moan came from the sofa where a mop of curled black hair was barely visible.

Sherlock would stand up abruptly, to sit on the long sofa.

'_Milk_, John? Is Mary teasing you again?'

John frowned. Mary may have teased him alright, hardly to diverge him by the supermarket, that she knew he hated, before Baker Street.

'So it really wasn't you?'

'Why would I ask of you such a mundane task?'

John stopped short, unbelieving and smiling. 'And somehow it rang true to me', he opted to point out. 'I'll have a word with Mary.'

Sherlock assured him 'Don't bother'. He was already holding his phone and texting. Those two were very good friends now. 'Just put the milk away, John.'

'I thought you didn't ask for milk, Sherlock.'

'We're always out of milk, John. What gave you the impression that I wouldn't take it?'

'Not _we_, _you_. I honestly don't have any idea what you can do with so much milk.'

Sherlock shrugged, looking up from his phone. 'Experiments.'

John was careful to convey an educationally disgusted expression at his friend's moment of attention.

Sherlock phone buzzed, and he read the text on a glance. 'Mary assures me she didn't send you that text.'

John's shoulders sagged, all of a sudden he was so tired, after a long day's work. 'This has "Greg Lestrade" written all over it.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Lestrade is away from London on a case. What kind of prankster goes through all the trouble without being around to enjoy the mayhem caused?'

'A really lame one.'

'Yes, so it can be Lestrade.'

'Or Mrs Hudson, thinking you are lonely, making me drop by.'

'Nonsense', Sherlock frowned. 'She'd just buy the milk herself and you'd still drop by.'

John shook his head for a second. Sherlock asked nicely: 'May I take a look at your phone?'

John handed it over immediately. It's not as if he had ever denied Sherlock his phone in the first place, ever since the very day they met.

' "Get us milk. –SH" Honestly, John, I'm not this rude.'

John giggled and Sherlock scowled. 'Yes you are, you git.'

'It's my initials but it didn't come from my phone number. As always you see but you do not observe.'

John exaggeratedly rolled his eyes. 'Like that's a first. You, borrowing someone else's phone to text...' Then he looked around. It was getting late and his mates were expecting him at the pub.

'Just have a seat already, John', Sherlock dismissed, cutting through his thoughts without even looking. John sighed and went for one of the table chairs, his mates would wait. 'Not _there_, John, for heaven's sake, you've got your own armchair.'

The doctor froze, stunned. Then a warm smile came to the corner of his mouth. 'It's not my armchair, Sherlock. Plenty of people sit there, even clients.'

Sherlock gave him a heavy look. 'Firstly, it bears a permanent indentation mark of an individual of your height and weight, secondly it's often adorned with a Union Jack pillow with a faint smell of tea and gun oil. Lastly, that's not what you said that one time I got it out of 221B.'

'Well, that's weirdly off-putting. You go around smelling pillows?'

'It's a valid investigative tool, John.'

'What were you investigating?'

'The pillow.'

'You're not answering me, Sherlock. Anyway, you think I smell of tea and gun oil?'

'Among other things.'

John blinked. 'Well, you used to stalk me all the time, why am I surprised?'

'I was merely trying to protect you when Moriarty was threatening and...' The consulting detective's voice trailed off and the colour was drained even more from his white pale skin. 'Moriarty...'

'Moriarty has to be dead, Sherlock. He _offed_ himself.'

'So did I, John.'

'_Jeeeessss-_' John broke himself in half like he had just been hit hard on the stomach. Honestly, it felt like it too.

'John?' Sherlock's voice was concerned, and his green eyes were clouded.

'_Jes-_ Sherlock! A little warning first the next time?' he took a deep breath, his cobalt blue eyes were still dazed. 'Just... don't make jokes about it, alright?'

'You know I didn't actually die, John', the detective's voice was precise, scientific.

'Yes, I do', John nodded unconvincingly. He took a seat on his armchair at last. Yes, he agreed. There was a vague smell of tea and gun oil and logs burning in the fireplace. It was all soothing, driving away the little rattle on his left hand. How had that returned too?

Sherlock used John's distraction to look closely at his friend's phone. It read:

**_Get us milk. –SH_ (received 18h07)**

**_Why John? –SH_ (sent 19h03)**

**_For old times' sake. M xxx_ (received 19h04)**

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	9. Mary is breakfasting

**9. Mary is breakfasting**

_**.**_

A cab pulled over in front of the white house with blue door. A very energized tall man practically jumped out, ran to the house and rang the doorbell for 5 seconds straight.

Mary got up from her breakfast table calmly and answered the door to an impatient consulting detective.

'Where's John? I _need_ his help on a case!' Sherlock demanded, tense, excited, lively. His eyes were shining with a burst of energy and May was quite sure it was a proof of deep friendship that Sherlock had managed to force himself to go through the Watson's house to collect John before closing the case, instead of just texting him the details (John would never fail, loyal).

'Good morning, Sherlock. I'll tell John. He's just showering. Why don't you come in and wait?'

'Wait? We can't wait, Mary! There's a case, _a case!_'

Mary smiled, knowingly. 'Well, it'll have to wait for him to get dressed, won't it?' Sometimes talking to Sherlock was like talking to an overgrown child.

'It's a waste of time', Sherlock frowned.

'Not to me, I like my husband clean', Mary maintained with a quirky smile, letting him in.

To her surprise, Sherlock walked right past the living room, heading upstairs.

'Sherlock, you really need to wait', she insisted.

'I'm not wasting any more time. I'm informing John of the particulars of the case.'

'He's in the shower.'

'So?'

She rolled her eyes. 'It's one of those things he won't like, Sherlock.' For a second she was quite sure he hadn't thought about it. There was definitely something endearing about his complete disregard for social conventions.

'I've seen him naked before', he protested. Now Mary was sure he knew how _that_ sounded, and that he was trying to throw her off balance. Innocent one second, manipulative the next. He really was an overgrown child.

'Well, that makes two of us. Let him get dressed anyway, Sherlock, or he won't be pleased.'

'Are you saying he wouldn't go with me?' he squinted at her. 'Anyway, why is he taking so long?'

'You only arrived a minute ago, Sherlock.'

'He spent three years in army camps in Afghanistan. How long are the showers on a desert? Oh, _it's you_, Mary, isn't it?' he pointed at her. 'You got him used to... this!'

'Used to enough hot water?' she smiled. 'Yeah, probably my fault... Wasn't he the same in Baker Street, though? And don't', she stopped him short, 'tell me you timed his showers then. That's stalking.'

He grunted and looked away. 'How else was I supposed to know if his injured shoulder was giving him a hard time?'

Mary's expression softened at once. 'You could have asked him.'

'I tried. John always changed the subject.'

'Yes, that's John alright... Okay, Sherlock, you can go upstairs but you have to talk to him through the closed bathroom door.'

Sherlock nodded, resuming some of his content. Bursting with energy he got up the steps, two at a time. Mary went back to the breakfast table with a small smile on her lips.

Not even five minutes later, her boys were descending the stairs, in excited but definitely slower steps. They'd both enter the kitchen. Soon, John was pouring coffee into two mugs, Sherlock was impatiently still, towering next to him. Mary winked at John, disguising a smile into her own coffee.

'I thought you boys were in a hurry', she reminded them.

John insisted, like in an old conversation: 'The criminal isn't going anywhere, it can wait. Breakfast is important. Sherlock, you're having a toast. Here's your coffee.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mary noted teasingly: 'Aw, that's my Captain Watson', and she bit her lip.

It was John's turn to roll his eyes, as if he could ever be angry with those two. He sipped his own coffee down all in one time (black, no sugar) and reached over the refrigerator, to grab his gun (as if it were the most normal place in the world to place a gun; well maybe it was for the Watsons). '_All_ of the toast, Sherlock', he demanded, tucking his Browning on his belt, behind his back.

Sherlock was obeying grumpily. 'We're already three minutes behind schedule, John.'

'What are you going on about?'

'You took two extra minutes in your shower today.'

'You timed my shower? Well, that's...'

'_Stalking_, yes, Mary told me.'

'I was going to say _thorough_, but Mary is probably right as well.' John smiled easily. 'You could have come up earlier.'

'Mary wouldn't let me', Sherlock grimaced.

'It's not like you haven't seen me naked before.'

'I told her that.'

Mary was blinking for a while and they caught it. 'What?' they demanded at the same time.

Before her husband could talk, Sherlock tried to help: 'It was for a case.'

John frowned at him. 'What case? There was no case with me naked in it, Sherlock!' he retorted angrily.

'Fine, it was _after_ a case.'

'Yes, it was!' John said, as if it explained everything. Mary giggled. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

'The kidnappers pushed John into the Thames. He got out soaking wet and freezing, so he had to get rid of his clothes. Hypothermia was mentioned briefly.'

John grimaced. 'All in a day's work', he said gloomily.

'If only that had been the only time...' John still considered, picking up his coat. 'Tell you all about it as soon as we come back, Mary.'

She smiled softly at them. 'Have fun, boys.'

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	10. Sherlock is benched (1)

A/N: I'm trying not to overdo A/Ns - but I'm on a caffeine high right now.

Just here to say that I've put the other characters on hold (Irene, Donovan, Anderson, Bill Wiggins ...) and decided to rotate back to the beginning. I may return to the characters left behind later.

Also, _Sherlock is benched_ has flowed into something else, so it became a two parts entry. Second part will be next.

Sorry about the A/Ns. -csf

* * *

**Sherlock is benched (1)**

_**.**_

A broken ankle! Not even a surgical case, a complex fracture, just a clean split. But of course John Watson had to go all _doctor_ on Sherlock and insist he'd lay off the casted foot, telling Lestrade to hold back any cases that required legwork, advising Mrs Hudson to – essentially – fuss over Sherlock (even more than usual).

Of course Sherlock appreciated silently the attention. One doesn't get to spend two years isolated from home, family and friends without learning to appreciate what they had to offer. He was just intent on not being side-lined, benched, while _the game_ continued. And he was intent on letting everyone know that much. The game was still on, not in stand-by. Ever.

And that's what he meant in his sulking fits and foul moods, in which he practically snarled at anyone who dared to drop by with sympathy and fake cheerfulness.

The cast was a nuisance. It still hurt so why have it in his foot at all, serving no apparent purpose? And the cast was itchy. Terribly itchy. A continuous reminder that short-circuited Sherlock's temper. He had always been the worst of patients. Either ignoring the injuries or milking them five times their worth. There was no middle ground. No land left untouched in his battle against fate. And John was well aware of that much. John had blocked Sherlock's chances of ignoring his left broken ankle so now he'd have to be ready to both doctor and nurse Sherlock.

'Sherlock, will you stop poking things under your cast?' John was mildly exasperated, and a bit too understanding (like one would be with a child), all without lowering the newspaper in front of him.

'John, my transport is failing me!' In front of him, John looked puzzled. 'I'm a brain, John. The rest of me is a mere appendix... that is failing atrociously.'

'Oh', John would say, unfazed. 'A brain, then? And how long has _that_ been going on?' he asked in his best doctor voice.

'Ever since a small child.' Sherlock would answer truthfully. John gave up quickly his setting for sarcasm ("you should see a doctor about that, you know"). Instead he tried to reason:

'It's a broken ankle, Sherlock. You'll survive it... Not sure I will, though', he added with dark humour. Sherlock glared at him.

'John I'm stuck here and outside there are crimes and mysteries happening! Why can't I be out there?' he protested.

'You can. Just remember you have quite a few steps down the stairs to get outside and you still haven't got the hang of the crutches.'

'You've been a lousy teacher about that.'

'I'll pretend I didn't hear that', John stated stoically.

'When I met you, John, you used a crutch. If you can do it, why can't a like genius like me do it?' There was actual curiosity under his impatience and, as always, John found it irresistible.

'Just give it time, Sherlock, and keep trying. You'll out-crutch us all in the end.'

'Your humour is funny today.' Sherlock twisted his face while saying it.

John blinked. 'Yeah, I notice that... Do you want some tea?'

'Wait!' Sherlock hissed. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?' John was already in the kitchen, grabbing a kettle.

A distinctive metallic click crossed the landing. They both recognized the sound immediately; the safety being clicked off a gun.

John cursed, lowering the kettle. 'I left my gun in my coat, downstairs', he realized. 'No way of getting it now. Sherlock, how come you never got your own gun?'

'I don't know. I guess we'll have to fight them.'

'Them? More than one person?'

'Definitely', Sherlock assured like it was obvious.

'Are they all armed?'

'How could I know that?' Sherlock protested.

'Sherlock, you can't fight them in your state. _You need to get out._'

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.

By the way, this is the original quote: «I am a brain, my dear Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix» -Sherlock Holmes, _in_ The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone – The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes, _by_ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.


	11. Sherlock is benched (2)

A/N:_ Sherlock is benched_ has flowed into something else, so it became a two parts entry. This is Part two. -csf

* * *

**Sherlock is benched (2)**

_**.**_

'Sherlock, you can't fight them in your state. _You need to get out._'

'There is no other way out, John.'

'There's the fire escape through the kitchen window. It won't be comfortable, but you'll manage. I'll stall them, Sherlock. Call Greg as soon as you're safe.'

'John, don't...'

There was no point, John was already rushing towards the danger, offering himself as a hostage to buy time. Sherlock had tried to reach him, only to almost collapse on the floor without balance. He then glanced at the kitchen window. Sure John thought of him sometimes as a hero, but that was too much all around. Sherlock headed to the small balcony outside the living room windows instead. That would permit him to access the situation inside before being noticed, and would definitely ensure the attention of Mycroft's men in under three minutes. Greg could be called later, if necessary. Sherlock wasn't too keen on having Greg come over in a blast of hell-loose police officers to find Sherlock hiding in a narrow cast iron balcony, thrown out of his own apartment by John _bloody_ Watson...

He'd just shut himself outside when John was pushed into the living room by two armed man.

'I don't know where he is!'

John collapsed on the floor with a heavy unresponsive thud. _The fallen soldier._ Brought down by a vicious blow to the back of the head. The short blond man now lay defenceless and vulnerable on the floor.

All the while, Sherlock was still safe, crutching by his broken foot in the balcony. _Stupidly noble idiot._ John had failed to stop the assailants, but he had succeeded in buying Sherlock time. A gift Sherlock wouldn't squander, for both their sakes. Concussion, internal bleeding to the brain, a multitude of scenarios revolted Sherlock's stomach. He shook his head to dissipate the headache growing on him.

Mirror effect. As if John's pain was seeping inside Sherlock, nestling and procreating there, impossible to ignore. "Emotions are funny things, sometimes", John had once commented about that. "Sympathetic pain, it's actually rare, Sherlock, but it happens."

The two intruders met back in the living room, after checking all the other rooms of 221B. They were now much too close to John's unconscious body. Sherlock would gladly kick them with a broken ankle all the way to China, just to get them away from John.

They were muttering in some Central European dialect to each other, but through the window panes Sherlock could hardly make out their words, just the main sounds. Yet, when one of the men looked back down at John, Sherlock recognized the expression. He'd seen it often. A dark vicious expression that resonated in Sherlock with a wish to pay back in kind.

They were planning to leave no witnesses alive behind.

While the second man kept his gun stored at the moment, the first hunched over John, holding out his hunting knife. Sherlock kept them under close watch. Rule #1 for criminals had already been broken – _never touch John, there's hell to pay._

Slowly, deliberately, in cold-bloodied detached way, Sherlock Holmes opened the window and walked back into the room (holding only slightly at the window frame for support).

'Were you looking for me?' he asked with a superior smirk.

The two men tensed, the unconscious hostage on the ground completely forgotten for the moment.

Sherlock would do this for John, he'd do the same. Actually he had just done.

Both the gun and the knife were back in place, as the two men came closer to Sherlock, circling him.

Dramatic, Sherlock rolled his eyes, like a boring every day event. He reached his armchair and again he leaned a bit for support. The pillows sagged. 'So, which will it be? Your dissimilar choice of weapons confuses me', he taunted them.

'Sylvius wants you, Holmes', the man with the gun answered.

Sherlock smiled coldly. 'Thanks, I was just waiting for your boss' name.' And in a swift fluid gesture he took out something from behind the pillow where his hand was supported, and threw it across the room. The small glass ball chattered at the carpeted floor and immediately smoke was rising and filling the room all around them. At a distance, there was a blaring sound of police car's sirens.

The smoke was swirling and greying not only the room but their senses. The weapons lost their aim. In less than two seconds the two men were collapsing unconscious on the floor, followed by the detective himself over his (softer) armchair.

_**.**_

'I used what I had at hand, Greg. I have a few little precautions around the flat, of course. There are plenty of criminals after me, I mean to be prepared. This is quite an ingenious contraption I acquired online a while back. Almost forgot I had it. A simple crystal ball full of a fast sleeping agent. It was the closest and easiest way out. Unfortunately you arrived too soon.'

'Too soon?' John repeated, as he held an ice pack against the back of his head. 'If I'd known you had _precautions_, I might have thought twice about trying to help you get out through the fire escape, Sherlock.'

'You dashed out, what did you want me to do, yell about them out loud? And, of course, I had the situation under control the whole time. I just needed time to know who had ordered my kidnapping.'

'Of course you did', John muttered. The headache wasn't improving his mood.

Greg suspected: 'And now? Now you know who wanted you?' He was eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

Sherlock gave him his most childlike smile. 'Now there's hell to pay.' Rule #1 was to be demonstrated.

Greg was looking back steadily and concerned. John just lowered his ice pack, slowly. At least Sherlock had forgotten all about his inconveniencing cast for now.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	12. John is breathing

**12. John is breathing**

_**.**_

_Six hours, thirty-six minutes. That's how long Sherlock had been sitting in that ghastly uncomfortable hospital chair._

_Six hours, thirty-five minutes. That's how long he had been appreciative of its proximity to a sleeping narcotized John H. Watson._

Streamlined metal structure, seat made of black PVC plastic set at 45 centimetres of height, really uncomfortable.

Saline bag supported by mobile metal hanger, dripping its contents into a clear IV line. Secondary bag with an antibiotic solution connected to the main line. Both solutions merging into one another in their gravity induced descent.

Life support machine, European maker, six years old model with four inspections, connected to the main power supply, beeping away in constant rhythm. Small copper wires connected to electrodes separated from the machine's core, measuring heart beats, oxygen saturation, and blood pressure.

_Internal hard drive registering all the data for posterior analysis. There is some symmetry here, feels sarcastic to the exhausted detective._ Focus!

Articulated bed, slightly elevated, where a flat polyester pillow rests, encased in white and blue 100 per cent cotton fibres, turning rare, worn out, not soft. Same material as the bed sheets, finished with a trim where the hospital's name is repeated over and over again. _As if anyone can forget_.

The room's atmosphere is saturated. Filing it, the insufferable smell of disinfectant and alcohol wipes. And the sounds. All the sounds in the dead of the night. Silent furtive steps of nurses, computer keys tapping, the clogs of a dialysis machine down the hall, the hush-hush conversations of a place where people are dying or hurt.

_Sherlock hated it all._

_Yet he wouldn't bear to leave John behind._

_His mind wondered to the beginning of that long night._

There was a badly lit alley, a criminal with a concealed gun, two missed shots fired at Sherlock, the last of which failed him by courtesy of an intervening ex-soldier placing himself in danger. The third shot was aimed at John and Sherlock wasn't able to return the favour in time. John had hit the ground, shot in the gut. Conscious, alert, pained, John had remained stoic and gentle. 'Call 999, Sherlock.' With trembling fingers and a sudden aphasia spell that left him wondering which key was numbered "9" he finally got through to the emergency services. Explained the situation as best as he could, described the location, and John – his condition, age, health, allergies, till he realized he was just parroting what John had told him to say. It didn't bother him, John was the expert on John there. Finally he hung up. John was on his arms, losing alertness but stubbornly fighting to keep his focus for Sherlock's sake. He looked so tired, so small, so frail. Sherlock held his friend wrapped in his arms, John's forehead coming to rest wearily on his shoulder. Sherlock's long arms around John's smaller frame (as if smaller by the second) acting as a protective barrier from the world in the one moment they were most vulnerable.

_Six hours, forty-five minutes, and Sherlock kept his vigil._

_The doctors and nurses that had greeted their arrival in frantic energy were now ignoring them, recommending rest for the patient. And Sherlock hated them all for that – for leaving John there, before he was fully functional and healthy again, for recommending time and patience before John had even regained consciousness. What was their purpose if they went on and on about time and patience and faith? They were clearly a bunch of fraudulent hacks, utterly and hatefully incapable of performing the paramount task of fixing John! ... _John.

Sherlock ignored the chair, the IV bags, the bed and bedding. He was looking straight at John now. Deepened wrinkles and breathing were expected. That hateful tinge to his skin, though, of a sickly yellowish tinge that was a direct product of the morphine intake to keep the post-op pain to a manageable level. Sherlock hated it as much as the slight frown on the eyebrows that gave John a lost expression under his closed eyelids, a deep set marker of vulnerability.

Suddenly, or it sure seemed that way to Sherlock, there was a light twist on the edge of John's lips and a brief blink on the closed eyelids. John was there, fighting through the narcotics haze, trying to regain consciousness.

Sherlock smiled. He just smiled. The doctor in charge had said he'd make a full recovery. Sherlock let that warm feeling flood through him at last.

Like he could have back some of the control that had mercilessly been stripped away from him.

John was the safety net. John was the last resource. John was backup with his Browning.

John was safety in a chaotic world.

He had no idea of what to say once John fully woke up. For once, the genius was lost of any coherent thoughts. Sherlock felt nice, relieved, so he allowed himself to sit silently, a smile still untamed. Talk had always been easy with John, so they'd figure it out. Control had never been on Sherlock's grasp that entire evening to begin with. He was finally letting his guard down and growing accustomed to me the realization that the only thing within his reach was that current moment in time, fading in to the next one. He let the relief be the driving force behind every breath he took, filling him, nursing him.

In those few precious minutes, filled only with the sound of Sherlock and John breathing, there was shared a deeper message than any of the words they would share once John was fully awake. They were both breathing, both alive, both in the moment. There was no past, no future, to concern them. Deep inside, Sherlock felt that for the moment those sounds were all it took to fill him with content.

But he was wrong. It'd be nothing compared to the warmth that spread through him when John regained full consciousness minutes later and, croaky and exhausted, he gave Sherlock a reassuring smile. The conversation that followed, half gestured, half croaked through both of their rough voices that had been silenced for far too long would be healing for the both of them.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	13. Greg is blogging

**13. Greg is blogging**

_**.**_

_(...)_

_And that's how we caught the criminal. All in a day's work for Sherlock, I'd say, I'm just glad I was able to come along and help._

_Dr. John H. Watson_

**42 comments**

Well done, mate! Hope the florescent ink scrubs out easy... well, not really! I want to see it. Want to grab a pint soon?  
**Mike Stanford -16:08**

Oh, so that's how you two got covered in all that bright yellow. It was really funny, though. (Mrs H)  
**Mrs Hudson -16:40**

I hope the yellow footprints came out better from the floor than the yellow in my hair, though. Glad it was funny, Mrs H.  
**John Watson -18:06**

:)  
**John Watson -18:07**

If it's to make fun of my hair, you're buying the drinks, Mike.  
**John Watson -18:08**

Fine. Ask Sherlock if he'll come too.  
**Mike Stanford -16:08**

Is this a social desire to mingle in a crowded place with loud football games on a telly or do you wish to see if my hair is yellow too, Doctor Stanford?  
**Sherlock Holmes -18:31**

Both.  
**Mike Stanford -18:36**

I think he might be busy, Mike. You know him, always busy.  
**John Watson -18:40**

We can talk the details on the phone?  
**John Watson -18:40**

The police is lucky to have you two.  
**Geronimo -19:40**

"Geronimo"? What kind of a name is that?  
**Sherlock Holmes -19:43**

An anonymous name. No need to be rude. I was complementing.  
**Geronimo -19:44**

Hiding behind a name. Probably maintaining gender, so more likely a male. Undisguised admiration, so definitely not from the Yard. Short precise sentences, holding your ground. Used to command, to lead, that narrows down the list of jobs you can have to 23 professions. Following this blog from London, from your IP address, that narrows it down further.  
**Sherlock Holmes -19:46**

How do you know my IP address? ? ?  
**Geronimo -19:47**

Extra punctuation, denoting an emotional response after sensing your anonymity is at cost.  
**Sherlock Holmes -19:47**

Okay, this is enough. I'm off.  
**Geronimo -19:48**

And yet, you'll return.  
**Sherlock Holmes -19:48**

Hi, guys! You're my heroes, I'd really love to meet you, guys.  
**GirlInLove -20:03**

"GirlInLove", I've deleted some of your commentaries, I really don't think it's safe to display personal information like that on here for everyone to see. Nice to hear your kind words, though. –John  
**John Watson -20:20**

If you persist, I'll talk to your parents, "Girl". Yes, I know who you are. Your father's name is Mathew and your other is Mary.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:22**

Sherlock, just leave it.  
**John Watson -20:22**

John, she was saying very inappropriate things.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:22**

She's young, Sherlock.  
**John Watson -20:23**

John, I thought you were the responsible adult here.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:23**

Fine.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:23**

What do you mean "I'll return"? ? ?  
**Geronimo -20:28**

My point exactly.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:29**

John, do you know who this person is?  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:29**

I think he does.  
**Geronimo -20:30**

I think I do.  
**John Watson -20:31**

And thanks for your kind words. ;)  
**John Watson -20:31**

John, I'm not happy with this.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:31**

With what, Sherlock? Our anonymous commentator or the yellow dye?  
**John Watson -20:32**

The anonymous person.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:32**

The yellow dye is annoying too. Suits you just fine. You're blond.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:32**

Yeah, I'm blondish. Still looks weird. But I guess in your hair it shows more... Why are we writing this on my blog?  
**John Watson -20:33**

My phone is in my coat.  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:33**

:)  
**John Watson -20:34**

Well, I'd know about that, you lazy sod.  
**Geronimo -20:34**

Insulting now, anonymous Geronimo?  
**Sherlock Holmes -20:34**

Giving you clues, actually.  
**Geronimo -20:35**

_**.**_

DI Greg Lestrade leaned back on his office chair. The hour was late, the report was about done, and teasing Sherlock on John's blog was a welcomed distraction.

Suddenly his phone rang. The screen read "Sherlock Holmes". Greg smiled.

'Took you long enough, Sherlock.'

'_You kept your initial, Gavin'_, he heard from the other side, on the consulting detective's voice.

'I know you know my real name, Sherlock. But if you want to keep it up I'll give you a hand with the G names. How's the yellow dye coming out?'

'_Hm'_, he heard grunt back.

'Anyway, still got you to get up and fetch your phone, didn't I?'

'_I want a new case, Greg, I'm bored.'_

'I'll look into it, Sherlock.'

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	14. Mrs Hudson is brilliant

**14. Mrs Hudson is brilliant**

_**.**_

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat for breakfast in 221B's small kitchen. They were getting up late, exhausted from a night of racing after art forgerers in Tate Modern. The expert criminals had had an inside man to disconnect the alarm system and the cameras, allowing them to explore the vault-like deposits of the museum. John had the common sense to point out that they were hardly connoisseurs of artistic paintings. Sherlock muttered something about an art-related entry on his blog. Thus proving at least one of them was familiar with some type of art. John shrugged his shoulders. They left it at that, before the detective could pout again about the 135 perfumes profiles, or the 243 types of tobacco ash. Apparently there was a new entry about five non-invasive methods of identifying Parisian blue pigment in older paintings. And that alone, John expected, explained the new state of 221B's kitchen.

'Blue again, Sherlock? You realize you're repeating yourself?' John asked casually, getting some bread on the toaster.

The consulting detective allowed himself a half-smirk.

'I was bored again', he played along.

'Too bad those art thieves got away last night.'

Sherlock agreed gloomily and sipped some coffee in hope that John would skip the usual nagging about general nutrition and the importance of breakfast.

Before John could fuss, though, that one step on the beginning of the stairs creaked heavily, followed by uneasy silence. Sherlock and John crossed gazes.

'Not another break-in', John sighed. 'I thought Mycroft was on this, Sherlock.'

They were talking in whispers, trying to keep track of further footsteps.

'He must have got side-tracked with cake', Sherlock snapped, unfriendly. 'Good thing is we don't need to search for the thieves anymore, they came to us.'

'My gun is downstairs', John lamented.

'What's the use of a gun if you never carry it?'

'I was just sleeping on the sofa. Do you really think I'd sleep with a gun behind my back?'

'It wouldn't be the first time', Sherlock shrugged.

'No, but it's downright uncomfortable, Sherlock', John smiled back dangerously. 'What's our plan, Sherlock?'

'Don't worry, John, it's under control.'

All the lights went off in 221B at the same time. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. _Amateurs._

'Hands in the air! Get up slowly, no tricks!'

John glanced at Sherlock to see him already complying. With less enthusiasm he copied the gestures.

The armed man – who happened to be the head of the art thieves they had been chasing all over Tate – gestured to the stairs. Sherlock got up and walked ahead first, giving the man a dangerous measuring stare as they past each other. John followed right behind.

As soon as they reached the end of the steps, Sherlock halted, though. Looking over his shoulder he recommended: 'You might want to raise your hands, Price.'

'And why would I do that?'

'Because of the gun behind you.'

Both Price and John looked back at the open door of 221A, where Mrs Hudson stood calmly with John's gun in her hand, pointing at the thief and frowning her face as if she was watching some boyish mischief at play.

Price raised his hands, stunned, after handing over his gun. Sherlock took the chance to grab some handcuffs from his coat pocket and restrained the man to the banister.

As Mrs Hudson lowered the gun at last, John offered her sweetly: 'Mrs H, you are brilliant.'

Then he turned back to Sherlock and his smile fell.

'You knew they were coming all along?' John asked in a demanding voice, his ears turning red.

'Yes, of course, John.'

'And you didn't tell me a thing?'

'You were perfectly safe, John, I kept a vigil all night so you could sleep.'

'You were sleeping too, Sherlock.'

'Only for two hours. I knew for sure they'd take at least a couple of hours to define a new plan. As it turned out, they were remarkably slow.'

'Why didn't you tell me? I didn't even have my gun! I was asleep when you thought they'd be coming after us! Even Mrs H was...' he glanced at the old lady with his gun still in her hand and froze, unsure. Mrs Hudson was certainly not looking vulnerable in his mind right now.

'I knew I could trust you both, and you needed to rest, John.'

John tightened his jaw. 'You don't get to do this, Sherlock. Convince me you were keeping me out of the loop out of kindness.'

Sherlock frowned, but didn't say one more word. Last major times he had kept John out of the loop included St. Bart's rooftop phone call and an underground carriage full of explosives. John still wasn't happy about those either.

'Mrs Hudson', Sherlock invited kindly, 'care to come up? We were just having breakfast upstairs.'

She looked from Sherlock to John, understanding. 'Be right up in a second dear. Just need to get me a washcloth.'

'A washcloth?' John repeated, blinking. Washcloths and breakfast. Business as usual.

'Yes, dear, and some gun oil. I'll give you back your gun nice and clean in a jiffy. I can tell it's been fired last night.'

'Nice and clean?' he whispered.

'Of course, John, but just this once. Not your housekeeper, remember?'

John looked from Mrs H to Sherlock before erupting in an unstoppable giggle. Sherlock was looking at them with a broad smile.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	15. Mycroft is black-eyed

**15. Mycroft is black-eyed**

_**.**_

'Are you sure this is the place your brother asked us to meet him, Sherlock?' John carefully asked. 'It's not like him to be this late. What if there's something wrong?'

'Unlikely. He hasn't used any of our pre-arranged distress signals.'

'What if he couldn't?'

Sherlock looked down on his friend. 'He's Mycroft. He'd find a way, John.'

The doctor shrugged.

'So he's just late for dramatic purposes?'

'More likely', Sherlock smirked too.

Finally they heard footsteps on the hardwood floor outside the little meeting room. John glanced at Sherlock, he nodded, confirming the identity. 'The diet's not going that well', he even added.

'You don't have to bring it up every time, Sherlock.'

'Shouldn't I care about my brother?'

'Well, you... Never mind.'

'Very eloquent, John.'

Mycroft entered the small office then. His eyebrows quirked up, his chin raised, the stiff posture of a gentleman... and a reddened black-eye.

Sherlock giggled softly. Mycroft glared at him. John got up at once.

'Well, that's red, must be fresh. Have you had a doctor see it, Mycroft?' He was already approaching the older Holmes, in Doctor Watson mode. 'There is some swelling building. Let me see, can you...'

Mycroft stepped back at once. 'I do not require your services, Doctor Watson. I have my own team of medics.'

'Then you either call them right now or take me in as your temporary physician', John insisted. Mycroft looked over at his little brother in indignation.

'Oh, just let him', Sherlock advised, with a smug smile, leaning back on his chair as a spectator.

'If you'd kindly take a seat, Doctor Watson. I assure you my eye is fine.'

'Yeah, just bruising fast. Look, Mycroft, I may not be a brain surgeon or something like that, but I'm quite capable of taking a look at a black-eye. Right, Sherlock?'

Sherlock frowned, John was a fun spoiler. 'He's the best doctor I know', he said.

Mycroft refuted: 'He's the only doctor who still accepts to stick to his Hippocratic Oath regarding you, Sherlock. So, he's the only doctor you know. May I remind you the dreadful patient you make?'

Sherlock shrugged as if it were a minor detail. 'How did it happen? You despite legwork and anything... active, after all.'

'I broke my rule', Mycroft admitted, as John was finally giving up. If the patient had all that energy to complain he probably wasn't at risk of any medical emergency soon.

'Who was it?' Sherlock inquired as if bored, but his green eyes were shinning with a deep and dangerous light.

'Potential terrorists.' He raised an eyebrow.

'I assume you handled it thoroughly?'

'As thoroughly as it gets, Sherlock... Three men jumped at me in the private balcony of a theatre debut of «Madame Butterfly». Exquisite performance.'

'The thugs?' John frowned.

'The opera, John. It's an opera.'

'Of course I know _that_.'

'As I was saying, three men came in from the shadows and proceeded towards me, intending to injure me.'

'That's one way of saying it. Now skip to the important bits, Mycroft. No one needs to know about the opera and their intentions were clear from your aftermath black-eye.'

'I see my brother's impatience is rubbing off on you, John.'

Sherlock assured: 'he's still testing your reactions for signs of concussion, brother. I told you he's a good doctor.'

'I thought he was supposed to ask me the date, the Prime Minister's name, and such?'

'He knows we'd both be too bored to answer those questions.'

'Indeed... Well, John, it was all quite simple. As it turned out they infiltrated the theatre evading security protocol by posing as catering personnel. The security checks forced them to be unarmed. That was my advantage.'

'There were three of them', John recalled.

'And I', said Mycroft lazily tipping up his ever faithful umbrella, 'am always ready for London's weather.'

'Oh...' There was admiration in John, the same he used so often towards the brother. 'I assume this was some sort of gift from you, Sherlock?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'A momentary lapse of an emotional nature, I believe.'

Mycroft took the umbrella in his hands, twisted the peg twice, and unscrewed a long thin, but sturdy, blade from the central axis. 'It comes in handy sometimes.'

'I picked the fabric with you in mind, brother.'

Mycroft looked down on the plain boring black fabric with a smirk.

'Good choice, brother.'

John was smiling at both. Both Holmes had the moves, who'd have figured?

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	16. Mary is backup

**Mary is backup**

_**.**_

'How in the world do we _always_ get mixed up in a shoot down?' John protested, squatting behind a dumpster, quickly refilling his gun with bullets.

By his side, Sherlock shrugged as a brief answer before claiming out loud, his rich voice filling the whole alley:

'_The police will be here shortly, why don't you please just put down the gun and give up?_'

John frowned and glanced him sideways; as if the serial murderer they had trapped at the alley was going to comply with a nice request. Sherlock's green tinged eyes were almost obscured by the defiant expression. The detective was either trying to gain time or to divert the murderer's attention.

'Why didn't you tell Greg what we were going to do?' John asked him, holding up his gun and unlocking the safety mechanism. Without waiting for an answer he peeked of the dumpster's side and took a couple of shots.

'I wouldn't need his help, or the Yarder's, if you didn't keep missing so much, John.'

Well, that was hurtful. 'I'm trying to get him to stay put where he is and stop shooting back at us, Sherlock. I have neither the line of fire or the desire to take him down before he gets sentenced in court.'

'Well, marriage as clearly changed you, John Watson.'

'What do you mean, marriage-? I can't go around killing the criminals we run into!'

'This is self-defence, John.'

'We got him cornered and he's running out of bullets. There is no need to go all John Wayne on him!' The cultural reference was pretty much lost on Sherlock. 'What in hell is this all about?'

The detective acted all nonchalant all of a sudden.

'There is nothing going on', he stated in half-a-voice.

A couple of bullets shot past John's head, aimed to his side of the dumpster. 'Hang on a second, Sherlock', he asked. '_Do you mind?_' he yelled out loud to the murderer shooting at them. '_We're trying to have a conversation here!? Not all is about you!?_'

'Rude', Sherlock hissed, agreeing with John.

'Look I know he's not a nice guy but not even you can think it's okay to...'

'What if he shoots you, John?' Sherlock interrupted, his gaze fixed on John's.

'I go to the hospital', John answered him calmly.

'What if he kills you?'

'You get to keep my gun.'

'John, I'm very serious. You're married now, you have a family.' Sherlock's tone of voice was worried, persuasive.

'What? So I matter more now because of a marriage certificate?' John complained.

'Well, not to me.'

'Cheers!'

'But to Mary...'

Sherlock knew quite well that John was being purposefully thick. Acting like his life hadn't changed. John had always been so selfless. As a doctor he'd give the clothes off his back, as a soldier he'd dive headfirst into battle on another's plan of action, as a friend he'd often put Sherlock's needs before his own. Sherlock and Mary were the two people in John's life that went to extraordinary lengths to make John top of their list. Sure lots of friends cared about the doctor, but they didn't seem to know him the same way those two did.

John took a deep breath. A couple of random bullets soared across the alley but he wouldn't lose focus.

'Sherlock, you can't lock me up to keep me safe, or any other similar crazy plan. That's not how life works.'

'I know', Sherlock granted grumpily, looking away. John raised his eyebrows silently. So it really had been a plan once. Lovely.

'I might want to do the same for you, you mad genius', John said in a surprisingly sweet tone as he fired another round at the criminal. 'How's the ETA on backup, Sherlock?' he immediately went back to business.

'Greg says ten minutes.'

'We'll have ran out of bullets by then', John realized.

'That's fine. I called in for extra backup.'

John frowned in confusion. Before he could ask Sherlock to clarify, a lone high powered shot sounded from afar, and the serial murderer gasped, hit. The criminal was giving up in surrender after the mysterious shooter intervention.

John glanced at Sherlock, dumbstruck. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Great!' he mocked, 'now I have to waste time calling for an ambulance. You're a bad influence on Mary, John...' There was an amused light in his eyes, though.

This time, John was speechless.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	17. Molly is blackmailing

**Molly is blackmailing**

_**.**_

It would have been a regular morning, weren't it for the fact that it was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective at 221B Baker Street's morning. And he was in one of his sulky moods.

Now, Mrs Hudson knew about those, and she'd make random and periodic appearances upstairs to check on the child genius drowning in his brain. Making sure he ate; and letting John know about it so he'd drop by.

Greg Lestrade also kept an eye out, and regularly phoned about new cases the Scotland Yard might welcome the detective's help with. Truth be told, there was never any shortage of crime in London district, and if there had been, DI Lestrade would have found a case for Sherlock somewhere else in Great Britain.

Cases outside Great Britain would usually come only from the British Government itself, that is to say Mycroft Holmes. He too had an eye (or several security cameras) towards his little brother.

Molly Hooper was more of an inconspicuous sentimental blackmailer. She too would offer Sherlock something to entice his brain cells, but the body of the 59 years old male drowned in salt water while found in his own bathtub was conditioned to Sherlock leaving the flat and actually sustain some small talk over a coffee. Molly insisted the childishly sulking detective showing up at the morgue in his dressing gown still needed to share coffee and a meal with her at the canteen, even if she knew he'd act out for attention. Such as in the time Sherlock deduced a serial cheater out of the 25 years married server at the canteen. Needless to say, no one else in line had received food that day. That had just been yesterday. So, as a precaution, Molly had come to meet Sherlock at Baker Street instead, today. They sat, at opposite sides of the kitchen table.

'Sherlock, so what have you been up to?'

The detective was pretending to be all aloof, and at the same time interested in his cup of coffee.

'I wrote a new entry about green coffee beans roasting methods and how that distinctly allows one to identify the coffee blend's origins. You should read it up sometimes, Molly. You like coffee.'

She smiled softly, meekly, for his benefit. 'I will, Sherlock.'

'And I cleaned up some rooms of my mind palace.'

'That means you stared blankly at the walls for hours, right?'

That fired him up immediately. 'It's a valid tool that allows me to...'

Molly tuned out, as she sipped the coffee, following Sherlock's gestures mid air, his long violinist fingers tracing geometric figures mid air between them. She already knew all about his mind palace. She thought it was fascinating too. Making Sherlock light up and talk about his own prodigious mind was an old trick she had learnt from John. And the man had shared a flat with the bored genius for a year and a half. That was both a tribute to John's good nature and to his learnt skills set to help Sherlock.

'You're thinking about a friend', Sherlock suddenly changed gears, deducing the pathologist in front of him. 'You're worried about this person', he further depreciated the proof of human emotions. 'Is it... Lestrade? John?' he frowned. 'Why would you be worried about them?'

'I'm worried about you, silly man', she was blushing violently, and she drowned her awkwardness in her cup of coffee.

'I don't want you to worry about me, Molly. I don't want anyone to worry about me.'

'It doesn't work that way.'

Sherlock glared at her, for having put it blatantly in the open that Sherlock was motive for worry. Next would come pity and complacency. He scowled.

'You promised me a case, Molly. Where is it?' the detective demanded, suddenly energized.

'I've got it in my bag, and I'll give it to you in a minute, Sherlock.'

He frowned. 'The body can't have fit in your bag', he was eyeing her shoulder bag for size. 'Unless it's one of seventeen scenarios', he squinted his clear eyes, engaged again.

'It's just the files I've got here. And a couple of toes', she added, studying his expression. Suddenly his shoulders were back straight, his gestures were wide, his magnetic demeanour seemed to fill the kitchen where they sat. He was enticing, dangerous and exotic in equal measures.

'Toes? Why would you bring me toes? Five different scenarios... Was the victim male or female?'

'Middle-aged man, married, no kids, rocky marriage, heavy drinker.'

'Neat', Sherlock thought. 'Brought me the liver?'

'Couldn't fit it in my bag, sorry. Cirrhosis was present, though.'

'Where did he die?'

'On a spring day outing to a bed-and-breakfast with a lovely orchard. He must have liked it. Greg showed me pictures, it was lovely.'

'Apple trees?'

'Plenty. How did you know?'

'Arsenic poisoning. There are minute quantities present in the apple seeds. The wife must have collected enough, ground them, disguised their almondy taste in some cooking, and present the husband. He didn't notice the early signs because he thought he was still under the influence of the last alcohol binge. Neat.'

She smiled at how easy it was for Sherlock to solve a case like that. 'I'll tell Greg. And you can still keep the toes for now.'

'Thanks, Molly, that's... a nice gift.'

She giggled. Not many people would have called a heap of human toes a nice gift.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.

* * *

A/N: Titles are Becoming weirder and weirder as we go. Just... give me a Break, please. I'm going Barmey for B-words as it is (yes, I saved this one up, and it's lame). Total number of chapters predicted for the B-List: 21 (Because 221, from "221B", is utterly Berserk). -csf


	18. The Woman is behind you

**The Woman is behind you**

_**.**_

John Watson was making a cup of tea in 221B's kitchen, perhaps unaware that he was being watched. There was familiarity in the scene has Sherlock followed his friend's movements lazily through a fit of boredom that had thrown him half-sat, half-slumped in his armchair. The case was over, the world was boring and predictable once again, and even John's tea making routine, that so often had appeased Sherlock with its familiarity, was just numbing this evening.

'How can you be bored again?' John came back with a steaming mug and sat down in his armchair. 'It's been... thirty-five minutes since you closed the case!' he timed with his eyes on his watch.

Thirty-four minutes, ten seconds – Sherlock bit back his correction. It didn't really matter. No salvation in scientific accuracy of time measurement. It felt like _ages_.

John hadn't expected an answer, drinking his tea quietly. His breathing pattern was slowing, deepening, his tense muscles were relaxing, his eyelids were drooping. Only when his mug slid from his fingers – and crashed loudly on the floor, in a centrifugal explosion of hot liquid and porcelain shards, with no reaction at all from John – did Sherlock sense something was wrong.

Rapidly he leaned over his friend, checking his pulse, his abnormal pupil size.

'Don't be dramatic, Mr Holmes, I'm actually quite fond of the doctor.'

A smug female voice alerted to the presence of the elegant, sophisticated woman standing at the door.

'The Woman', Sherlock recognised her, despite the hair colour change, the darker skin tone from expertly applied make-up, the colder expression of her much too knowing and too old eyes.

He wasn't bored now.

'And here I thought you'd call me Irene Adler, like everyone else. Only you wouldn't, you're too clever for that. You know I have many names now. I can be anyone I like. Or, if you prefer, anyone you like, Mr Holmes.' She quirked her eyebrows suggestively fixing her gaze on the detective intently.

Sherlock gave one last glance at his friend, he seemed healthy enough. 'Neat. How did you drug John?'

She smirked. Always looking for answers, always the inquisitive mind. 'My, I must have drugged all the tea in your dingy little kitchen with a mild narcotic. You might want to take care of that later... Or not.'

'How would you know I wouldn't make a cup of tea for myself?' She smirked at the possibility. 'You could have come to find only John awake.' She lost her smile and scolded him with a look.

'Jealous I might want to talk to John instead?' she laughed. 'Now the good doctor is sleeping I thought you and I could have a talk, Sherlock.'

'Well then, come in. Would you like some tea?'

'Very funny', she fired back in a colder voice. 'I came here because I have a case for you', she said coming closer. 'I'm sure we can find a suitable arrangement.'

Sherlock looked away, rolling his eyes. 'Boring, predictable. And I hate to repeat myself.'

Her cat-like eyes narrowed further, following his every move. Glistening, provoking. Sensing the effect produced. 'Then name your price, Mr Holmes. I'll be your client if you like – and that's not something I'm used to saying.'

Sherlock yawned. She raised her chin defiantly. Her perfume drenched the living room of 221B. Ginger and cinnamon, laced with a dash of mimosa for sweetness. An interesting choice of exotic and vulnerable that suited her that evening.

'Now, now, Mr Holmes, I'm quite sure I didn't drug you tonight. Only John drank that tea. If you're in a theatrical mood you might want to throw me out. Which you clearly haven't. I must, therefore, have something you are interested in.'

She wouldn't miss his eyes narrowing at her words, she was on the right track, causing a reaction. Sherlock declared, faking distance: 'You came here at great risk. You know Mycroft Holmes keeps an eye on these Baker Street quarters. I'm hoping you won't disappoint me in the nature of your true reasons to take this risk.'

She took a deep breath. They had their gazes crossed. 'You're spoiling the fun', she accused, then looked away. 'There can be more than one reason, you know?'

'Let's stick with the most important one for now', he kept the impassive act.

But she wouldn't give in so easily. Slowly pacing the room, he'd suddenly realize she was circling him. _Fun_.

'Congratulations on your engagement, Mr Holmes.'

'We broke it off.'

'I think I like you as an eligible bachelor best.'

'And the case then?'

She stopped short. With one last look at the sleeping doctor, she said calmly:

'Make me your case, Mr Holmes. Hear me, deduce me, investigate me. If that's the only way I can have your full attention I'll take my chances.'

'So far I've heard nothing so far that John couldn't be awake for.'

She frowned, he kept bringing John up. 'How many times is he supposed to find that I'm not actually dead? He did raise his voice at me the first time, you know?'

A tiny crack in the perfect mask, for the first time she had entered 221B. A minute trace of vulnerability as she finally conceited to play along Sherlock's rules. Not the raised voice she mentioned. In light of her life experience, it was nothing. But the fact that it had mattered to her. Kindred spirits, Irene and Sherlock, recognising their similar condition of life damaged. Something had brought her there at the expanse of life-threatening danger. She was ready to admit she had come to Sherlock for help, not just a case.

Sherlock smiled at last. 'Go on, have a seat', he pointed her to the sofa. 'Tell me. Start at the beginning. _Don't be boring_.'

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	19. Moriarty is backstage

**Moriarty is backstage**

_**.**_

The freezing cold, the crime scene gore, all was easily being drained of the tired detective and blogger as they sat on a fish and chips place, down the road from the intermittent blue lights of the police cars.

A Pakistanis man was being served at the counter by the grumpy old owner that kept the telly on at all times, and always a bit too loud.

The saggy food was paradoxically quite nice, John considered as he worked it down with some coffee. There would be no going to bed soon, this case would take them the rest of the night, easily.

Sherlock's phone biped, on the other side of the table. It had been doing that all night so far. John's gaze followed silently the hand that Sherlock took to his pocket, the lit screen, the widening of the detective's green eyes in response, and the jolt of the discarded phone back to the pocket. Sherlock had been more secretive (as if he wasn't always) ever since Irene Adler's surprise visit the other night to Baker Street, and John wondered if this repeated texts were from The _not-really-dead-again_ Woman. He couldn't tell from where he sat, opposite Sherlock, without her customised text alert sound.

Little did John know it wasn't her.

Sherlock blinked slowly, as if tired. He was actually pondering the words he had just read.

_**Missed me? M xxx**_

There were plenty of people in Sherlock's life with names starting with the letter M. The taunting content of the message was a dead giveaway tell of the sender, though. Or of who the sender wanted Sherlock to believe was alive and texting him.

Every 24 hours like clockwork he received the copy of the same question. Always an untraceable number, GPS blocked. Sherlock had tried calling back – no answer. It was a one way street of daunting communication.

_**It must feel good to be back in your old life. M**_

_**How's the crime scene tonight? M**_

_**It was the butler, with a candlestick, in the conservatory. M**_

John should know about these new texts, John should be made aware. Why hadn't Sherlock told him yet? Because of the deep wrinkle in his forehead, between the smaller man's eyebrows. It was getting deeper. If John knew about the texts he'd never lose that frown now.

Jim Moriarty wasn't being more than a text bully, as well. No big plans for world domination revealed so far, no threats to specific friends of Sherlock. If it was really him. Anyone could get a burn phone and text those off. Then worrying John was the wrong option.

Yet, slowly the taunting almost-innocent texts were seeping into Sherlock's every train of thought. They were almost impossible to ignore. They were effectively harmless, borderline annoying, but that was all, as he kept reminding himself.

That painted the picture of Jim Moriarty, the riddle appreciator.

But there was no riddle. Just childish jibbers. Or was there?

Sherlock tried to focus on what John was saying. But in his mind he was already making plans to consult his brother. John couldn't know about that either. He hadn't been too happy when Sherlock had explained how Mycroft and him had elaborated the Reichenbach's plan.

Sometimes quiet was the only option.

Until John found out. Then quiet had been the worst option.

Sherlock's phone biped yet again.

_**Fish and chips? How ordinary. M**_

The man was watching him from somewhere across the street, or maybe someone at the crime scene told him. There were also sixteen other less likely scenarios.

Too many to catch the deranged criminal master.

'Sherlock, are you sure you're alright?' John asked kindly. 'Look, if you want to talk about Irene... Oh, it's not Irene', he read with his big blue eyes still looking worried. 'Well, I'm here if you need me, Sherlock. I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you change your mind...'

Sherlock nodded unconvincingly.

Another beep.

_**Have you told him yet? M**_

Sherlock smiled. Jim Moriarty wasn't in the fish and chips place, or he'd have known the answer (scenario thirteen denied). He was still at bay. Sherlock would keep him that way.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	20. Anderson is brave

**Anderson is brave**

_**.**_

They had been running, climbing, jumping, and overall speeding across London rooftops, chasing a known criminal that had eluded Scotland Yard for the last ten years. Then, at the rooftop of a small eighteen hundreds building, Sherlock and John's luck had taken a turn for the worse. The man had been leading them to that particular rooftop where he had reached for a concealed gun and had taken a shot back at the detective and his blogger. Before John could grasp his own gun, one of the first shots fired at them had hit his arm, causing him to spin with the impact. Next thing, he was unbalanced, falling on the long glass skylight that crashed under his weight, and both the doctor and his gun were swallowed by the empty dark second floor staircase bellow. John fell on the wodden floor of the landing with a loud thump noise and remained eerily immobile, surrounded by small shards of glass.

'John!' Sherlock called his friend's name from the broken skylight, eagerly awaiting some reaction from bellow, that didn't come. Even from the distance and despite the dim light, Sherlock could tell he was breathing, slowly but steadily. The arm wound was bleeding but not dangerously for now, and John's gun was lost further downstairs.

Heavy footsteps were audible on the rooftop, the criminal was approaching. Unarmed, Sherlock fired a few fast texts, desperately organising a way out of that messy situation.

'Damn it, John, this is a bad time for a time out', he protested under his breath, but somehow his eyes were watering. Definitely the effort to see through the dark night, of course.

'You've killed those five men in Cornwall', Sherlock accused, in a cold steely voice, piercing the night. 'And tonight you've tried to kill us. You may still succeed. You took down a brave strong man, Stevens. John Watson is one of the finest men you'd ever meet. But of course, he's a man you'd only meet as an enemy.'

'I shot him, and down he fell. Why all this talking, Holmes?'

Sherlock's buying time, but that he can't answer. He's also barely containing his anger in check, and his need to lash out at once. He needs to hold back till Lestrade can arrive with backup and an ambulance for John. Only his phone has just flashed a text message with a 7 minutes Expected Time of Arrival. Way too long.

From the street bellow, tire tracks screech to a halt. Maybe some passerby has just spotted the two silhouettes against the moonlight, facing each other on a London rooftop, separated by an old stone chimney.

'I could tell by your left thumb that you were once an engineer, you had a good job, a steady life. One day you threw it all away and became a criminal.'

'Am I supposed to be impressed, Holmes? Scared?'

The criminal was openly mocking him now, taunting him, as he came closer.

'It's second nature, it's what I do for a living', Sherlock shrugged, partially in sight of the criminal. He knew the man was saving the last bullet for a definite kill shot. 'It's also the truth.' ETA: 6 minutes.

'The truth doesn't scare me. I didn't kill those men by accident, Holmes. And this will be no accident either.' As he took aim behind the gun, Sherlock ducked behind the chimney and a very innocent looking can came rolling across the rooftop. Both men looked at it. The can released a thick smoke screen that enveloped the space, dissipating like a heavy white cloud into the night, glistening at the moonlight.

Next thing, Sherlock was punching the criminal full blown onto the stomach and trying to snatch the gun from his hand. There was a strong physical fight over the gun before it suddenly went off and one of the two men fell over into the broken skylight.

It missed the unconscious John Watson by a wide margin. Over the frame, Sherlock was bracing himself to check on the outcome of the criminal's fall. Then he barked over his shoulder: 'Hurry, Anderson! We need to get to John!'

The scared looking forensic technician followed the mad detective as he raced to the internal stairs.

'You're a doctor!' Sherlock yelled at Anderson.

'I have a PhD, I'm not that kind of a doctor!'

Sherlock acted like he hadn't even heard. As they dashed onto the landing where the two men lay unresponsive, Sherlock just stretched his long legs over the murderer and kneeled by John's side.

Anderson looked at the criminal. The bullet had crossed his shoulder. Then at John.

'We need to call an ambulance, Sherlock.'

'Already did', Sherlock stated, in a soft tone, as he pushed John's coat aside to view his arm wound. On the floor, the medical doctor was starting to come to. 'How are you feeling, John?'

The blondish man grimaced. 'Old. I feel old', he joked, as his muscles protested when he tried moving. Sherlock smiled. 'Is that... Anderson?' he recognised, as Sherlock helped him sit up.

'I called him for help. He lives two doors down the street.'

The sound of police and ambulance vehicles approaching with blasting sirens was starting to become clearer.

'Looks like you did just fine without me', John commented calmly, looking down on his arm. 'This is nothing', he lied.

'Maybe we should have Anderson join us till your arm heals fully, John.'

'That could be a nice appreciation gift he'd enjoy, Sherlock. He did show me his Sherlock Holmes' wall once, he's a dedicated fan.'

Sherlock's expression lost some resolution at the word "fan". Oblivious to this minute change, Anderson was collecting John's gun from the staircase and tucking it away inside his coat. The unregistered illegal gun would be returned to the doctor after the police report, saving DI Lestrade some trouble.

'Anderson', Sherlock called him. They faced each other. 'You came. That was... good.' Behind him, John was smiling.

_**.**_

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


	21. The skull is brought along

**The skull is brought along**

**.**

'The victim is female, in her thirties, tanned skin, dyed hair, average height. No identification found on her... Can you help us, Sherlock?'

DI Greg Lestrade was used to consulting Sherlock Holmes for the appealing (that is to say: weird) cases. The tall man in the long coat and curly black hair had come to the crime scene at Greg's request, but not without bringing along _a friend_.

'Anyway, where is John?' Greg was looking all around.

'Busy', the crouching-over-the-victim detective answered grumpily.

'Right.' Greg couldn't believe the childish tone in the grown man's voice. Lately, and after his marriage, John had become less available for late night outings at crime scenes such as the present one. He was struggling to find balance between his doctor career booming at the clinic, his time with his wife Mary, and his friendship with the mad detective. Last time Greg had seen John he had found him looking exhausted. He was too many important things to too many people, and was letting them burn him out.

John was a giving person. He had given his jumper off his back once (after a police officer had fallen into the river), had stayed long nights over a pint with Greg (after Greg and his wife had separated), had given his sister all of his salary once (after she had gambled her own away). No matter the person, John was always there, solid and reliable. That was precisely what got Greg worried now, to see that John was missing out on accompanying Sherlock to a crime scene. This wasn't just Sherlock's interest, John was into it as well, and they formed a well-oiled partnership.

Now, this new partner... Greg had serious doubts about him. For once, only a skull remained of him. Sherlock was very serious, as he held the mantelpiece skull on his hand, as he carefully manoeuvred himself around the body.

John needed to know about this. Greg took out his phone and started dialling for John when Sherlock's steal cold voice cut him short:

'Don't call John, there is no need.'

'Sherlock, you have brought human remains to a crime scene. I want to know what this is about. Did you two have a fall-out?'

The grown-up detective looked shyly away. 'Maybe.'

Greg smirked. 'Okay, tell me what it was about, Sherlock. What did you do this time?'

'What makes you think it was me?' he protested very fast. Too fast, actually. Greg just gave him a stern parental look.

'_Balance of probabilities_, as you call it.'

'Well, John is no saint either!'

'Sherlock... Do I need to call John and ask him?' Seriously, it was like dealing with a child.

'I don't know why he wouldn't come. He just said he couldn't come, Greg.'

'Didn't you ask him?'

'He said he was _busy_', Sherlock nearly spat the last word out of his mouth. 'And the culprit is the victim's long term boyfriend. This is an open and shut case. You hardy needed me here, Lestrade.'

'Not worth bringing your skull over? Your skull wasn't very impressed?' Greg mocked. 'Look, I can leave Sally in charge here, and give you and the skull a ride back to Baker Street.'

'Fine.' Sherlock shrugged, all aloof.

In twenty minutes, Sherlock and Greg were standing outside 221 and the DI had managed to make himself invited for a warm coffee before heading back.

'Just wanted to make sure you and the skull got home safely', Greg assured, as Sherlock opened the door. The latter just glared back. 'Your old friend there, he's kind of defenceless, Sherlock. Someone could snatch the skull and play ball with it, have it as decoration on Halloween night, use it as a flower pot...'

Sherlock was about to snap something back, as they climbed the stairs to 221B, when he halted suddenly. He sniffed the air attentively (valid investigative tool) and realized: 'Cake. There is cake. Upstairs. In my flat.'

'Mrs Hudson...?' Greg asked, unsure.

Sherlock's face lit up, as he studied the dust marks on the staircase steps. 'Someone came through here several times, with boots, once carrying a heavy parcel... These are John's footprints.'

'John?' Greg repeated.

'Yes, John Watson, the skull's replacement? I'm sure you remember him.' Sherlock stated sarcastically. 'He came here tonight, but why? What did he bring in?' In a fast run, he headed inside 221B.

There were paper decorations hanging about all the living room, where some new things seemed to have been stuck hidden behind books, lamps and general clutter (there'd be a treasure hunt for gifts later on). In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson, Molly and Mary were still fussing around a nice looking cake and some beverages. John came to the door at once.

'John...!'

'Well, it's your birthday, Sherlock. Think I'd forget?' Then his eyes narrowed, looking at his friend's hand. 'I did wonder where Skully went. Guess I know the answer now.' Sherlock just handed him the skull, absent-minded.

'Why didn't you tell me about... this?'

'Well, one of the goals of a surprise birthday party is to keep it a secret till the end. It wasn't easy, though, when the birthday man is the world's only consulting detective. The gang helped me out.'

Sherlock followed his gaze into the kitchen, and back at Greg. John added: 'Mycroft said something about a war keeping him busy, but he did ask us to save him some cake. I told him he could only have it if he came, so he's sure to drop by later.'

'John, this is-'

'What?' John lost his smile, suddenly worried. 'Not good?'

Sherlock looked all around to the warm friends-filled 221B.

'John, this is amazing, it's quite extraordinary', he finished with a warm smile.

_**.**_

A/N: And thus concludes the B-list. I'm sure to never look at B-words quite the same way again. -csf

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.


End file.
